


When it counted

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Marvel, Next Avengers
Genre: Anger Management, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: Written in drabbles, this is the snapshots of Francis Barton's (and the Next Avengers') lives given if they were born in a life where Ultron hadn't managed to destroy everything and everyone.





	

**1.**

Francis couldn't remember growing old. He just knows one minute he was chasing a butterfly, and he's small — maybe he's six? Maybe he's like, ten? — but his attention span was very short and he was chasing a butterfly, and he was giggling. He couldn't remember giggling like that unless he's like, drunk. Actually, he couldn't remember when he'd started drinking. Maybe when he was thirteen? Fourteen? He just remember it was from Tony's party and everybody was drunk, so he'd snuck out with a bottle because he thought, why not, and plus, everybody's doing it anyway. What's one more person, right? He hadn't known where his parents had disappeared, and frankly, he didn't ultimately care. 

He chugged half of the liquor content, despite the burn it left as it slid down his throat. He coughed a few times, too. But he liked how his vision blurred, how he felt infinite. It didn't last long, the feeling. Because Aunt Nat caught him, and dragged him for an IV drip so Dad wouldn't find out. Francis didn't think Dad did, though he had an inclination Mom knew. He got a talk about the dangers of alcoholism a week later, but they both pretended he had never tasted one. Mom let him take a sip of a beer. She'd asked him how did it taste like. He said, it was cool. It made him feel, like, old. An adult.

Mom laughed.

So Francis guessed that was okay. But he's eighteen now, and it's sort of weird. He's much, much taller — taller than Dad, even — and he's beautiful. Puberty was good on him, despite its earlier haunting promises that it might not. He's in front of 7-Eleven, leaning back against the railings where people park their bicycles and it's honestly a very nice morning. And Francis thinks of how he couldn't remember growing old. One minute he's a dumb kid being stupid as ever living hell, then he's just a semi-adult being stupid as ever living hell.

He tells Katie this, and she snorts at him. Tries swatting him at his head. He ducks, very easily, because he knows her well enough to avoid his delicate features from most of her blows by now, but also because of the height. Which he knows Kate hates. She huffs some more. He laughs.

She asks, "So what're we doing here?"

"I bought tobacco." He replies casually, tapping the thing now sitting on his bent thigh. He could see Kate's face twists in confusion — knowing full well he doesn't smoke (well, not _regularly_ ) — but she's not asking anymore question. Guess she's accepted his weirdness just as much as he's accepted hers. He also adds, "Oh, and I bought lottery tickets," and watches as she peers from her position besides him, wanting to see if it's true.

She laughs at this. " _This_ is how we're gonna spend your eighteenth birthday?"

Francis shrugs, smiles a little and scratches that thing. He doesn't win. Katie snorts some more.

At the corner of his eyes, Francis sees a butterfly.

 

 

 

 

**2.**

Francis fucking hates his parents' job.

It's not a secret in the Barton household, or, like, to Kate, but, _yeah_. He doesn't like it. Not even a little bit. Actually, not at all. He downright despised it. Clint and Bobbi knew. When he was nine and was, like, old enough that he could understand and actually, like, _care_ half the stuff adults were saying — he found out that his regular drops to the Bishops' households were because his parents were busy getting themselves killed elsewhere. Francis remembered running himself silly down one of the many hallways in the Bishop mansion when Kate was out with some private tutor studying thing that she had to go to sometimes.

He was trying to sneak by the many maids to steal himself a cookie from the cookie jar — because Kate was _that_ rich that she could afford one, or like, _three_  in her whole house — when Francis found out that most of them were distracted by a boring news in the mini television set in the kitchen. Just when his small, lean hand was dipped inside the bowl, he heard his Dad's superhero name " _Hawkeye_ " came up, and naturally, he turned. 

He was so fucking stupid, he thinks, for not coming to the conclusion earlier when there had been so many hospital trips and endless of times he woke up to bloodied cotton buds and bandages lying on the bathroom floor; so he guessed he deserved seeing a broadcasted image of his Dad half-dying and being carried away in an ambulance with the rest of the Avengers saving a city somewhere. Needless to say, he's pissed as _fuck_.

It was ten when Mom finally found the stack of medical reports and newspapers clippings he's hid within an old Science notebook he no longer writes in anymore about his parents. Francis cried and screamed and fought his parents — fought against the possibility of being an orphan — and had wanted to kick himself in the goddamn head when he'd rendered Mom crying, although he didn't stop fighting. Didn't stop accusing. Francis could still remember the way Dad surged up to him, blindly mad and terrifyingly mortified, lifting Francis up and asking him to stop. Stop yelling. Stop making your mother cry.

Francis sobbed and whimpered and tried kicking himself away, telling them he hates them. How dare they. How dare they did this to him. Francis didn't want to lose them, didn't want them to _die_.

Dad ended up hugging him, and Mom crawled, still half a mess like he was, until they all curled up at the corner of the kitchen into this pathetic a-little-messy family they've always been. Around them, Lucky whimpered too, sensing the heavy tension.

Francis ended up falling asleep, his white-snow hair brushed back by Mom while Dad hummed a forgotten lullaby.

When he woke up, Mom offered to teach Aikido, while Dad polished a new set of arrows. All for him, they said. Francis found himself agreeing, dumbfounded.

 

 

 

 

**3.**

 

Francis is not awkward on a battle staff.

He learned to use them properly when he's seven, though he's played with one since — well, since he'd known Katie, to be honest. With Kate, everything they've done felt like they've been doing it since _forever_. When Francis met Kate, introduced as "Katherine Bishop", they're very small. Francis didn't understand much why they met, just that from Kate's rambling afterwards once they've gotten past the first few minutes of being awkwardly new around each other, that apparently Francis' Dad was a superhero and Katie was taken by bad guys and it was Francis' Dad that had saved her life!

Francis used to grin at that, because _yeah_ his Dad was a superhero. _Superheroes are cool!_

That's all they were the next time they meet again, and again, and again. Francis wanted to be just like "Shang" from the movie Mulan, and Katie was Mulan herself. And they saved everything and everyone from all of the bad guys in the world!

Francis was seven when he took on the staff, and learned how to punch a guy. He'd never taken it seriously, but it's been good to know. And then he got into a nasty fight when he's nine and a half, the rage of living with parents who wished to _die_ manifesting until his knuckles met with a jaw of a bully in a school. He was ten when he learned more, and more, and _more_  under his parents' guidance. Some of the anger resulted helpfully in perfecting his aim in archery or when he's trying to strike a target with his batons, and by the time he's twelve, Francis has won three championship in local and international Archery Competition.

The last competition he was going to win, he ended up getting disqualified. He got into another fight with another competitor, and Francis came home with a bruised jaw, a teeth loose and a black eye. Katie hissed and scrunched her nose when her sister and her picked him up from the medical support team. Francis asked, "Where's Mom and Dad?"

Katie winced. "Still in Europe."

There was a terrible uprising there, the last time Francis checked. AIM, or some other. And a member of an Avenger had been severely hurt. They didn't tell who, and Francis felt like punching somebody again. Katie took him home and slid him under her covers, where they lie down and Francis cried until his face felt numb instead of the continuously throbbing pain.

Afterwards, he stopped going to public schools, or private ones. Mom and Dad had no choice but to result to home schooling. Francis hadn't care, and he could tell his parents were too guilty to retort back anything solid. 

A model agency also picked him up.

 

 

 

 

**4.**

Francis got his wrist wrapped when they spent summer at California. Things had been relatively peaceful lately because his parents were home a lot; even the missions they would return home from ended up having them no more in a state of little sore limbs and light bruises. Francis was thirteen at this point, and he'd taught himself to steel his nerves so he could be the one to wrap bandages and apply bandaids on his wounded parents, instead of them on each other all the time.

He's still pretty pissed at the world because the situation he's in is fucked up as hell either way — he couldn't ask his parents to stop being who they are, and they can never guarantee him that he'll not be parentless anytime soon — and he's even more pissed when he's been laid out of the plan that they're going to spend most of the summer with the Avengers. 

Mom said, "It's to celebrate." Even though Francis had no idea _of what_.

But he lets his parents had their way, because _fuck_. Things really could be worse, and it's not like, it's bad or anything. So Francis didn't like Mom and Dad's friends because, well, to him, they're all pretty fucking reckless bunch of morons who are part the reason why his parents were also reckless enough to go out and risks their lives almost everyday. _So what_. Whatever. Francis can fucking deal.

Plus, it's been super hard to get Mom to agree with the modelling contract he's only recently received — which, he's not going to lie, he's pretty excited about —  and so far, the first photoshoot was rad as hell. He could tell the people from the modelling agency saw a huge potential in him, and well, it helped that Francis could get money from just, like, looking into a camera. It's awesome.

He still hadn't understood why Bobbi was reluctant at first — maybe it's the whole trust issues, maybe it's because it's concerning her one and only son — but he could tell Mom was totally having fun too when she tagged along and saw the results of the photoshoot. So, in return for a terrific day, Francis was happy to oblige to Dad's request on BBQ-ing with the rest of the Avengers for, like, however long this peaceful times would last.

It was okay, if not too dreadfully boring. Most of the Avengers were just these collection of adults who'd sometimes come over and comment on how long since they last saw him. They'd exclaimed how small he used to be! And what he's doing now. They heard he's quit school. He'd shrugged, said that he's fine. He's home schooled now. Sometimes Mom's there to teach. Others, he's got Mr. Thompson, a lecturer or some from Europe who's an old acquaintances of Mom and Dad. They'd pat his head, like he's a kid again, and Francis tried not to snarl at how fucking _demeaning_ he felt.

It's whatever, he told himself. _Whatever_. 

A man with a metal arm came forward, and Francis squinted his eyes because he knew this guy. He's seen him plenty before when he's much younger. He's one of the member of the Avengers that Francis saw more in reality than just reading up online, or like, on newspapers and magazines. Bucky Barnes chortled when he saw him, humorous but tired eyes sliding upwards to Francis' new height (thanks to puberty) and Francis hadn't known whether to gawk or glare at the guy. "You've grown tall, Baby Bird."

Ah yes. Francis knew that nickname, thinking he should be annoyed at how that could easily be used against him — like, in a mock or a sneer — but instead, Francis felt himself relaxing. Like, _yeah_. He remembered this guy. He thought he had a memory of his six year old self bouncing on the guy's knee when he came over to talk to Mom. Francis remembered being fascinated by the arm, asking relentlessly of his parents that he wants one! 

Francis almost felt ashamed about feeling actually, like, _fuck_ , comfortable. Because he wanted to blame these Avengers _so hard_ about giving the courage for his parents to be stupid vigilantes, but — Mr. Barnes smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he inclined his head a bit to the left, as though considering.  "Heard you landed a modelling contract, kiddo. That's swell."

Francis wanted to roll his eyes at the word "swell" because, _who the fuck even say stuff like that in these age anyways_ , but he decided to just play neutral. "It's pretty cool."

"I know people say you look more like your Dad, but — those eyes. Those are Bobbi's, right there. The way you _glare_ —" Mr. Barnes laughed into his drink, and Francis eyed the way his shoulders shake. From his point view and the glove Mr. Barnes is wearing, Francis couldn't see the metal arm. He's almost disappointed. "Oh, man. It's kinda amazing."

He still finds himself smiling though, just a little. "The agents liked my eyes, too."

"And your hair — _bleach_?" Mr. Barnes pointed at the platinum blond strands, and Francis aimlessly touched it, frowning a bit. When he answered next, he thought his voice sounded half-mortified.

"No."

"Thought so," Bucky added, hummed. For a moment, his eyes looked distant, like he's stuck in a memory Francis couldn't pull him out of. "Your hair's always been white since you were a kid. Yeah."

Francis didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Later, Mr. Barnes pointed out that he also knew Francis had been going through training with his parents. He offered to test him "on the mat", see if he's as good as Bobbi claimed him to be. Francis doubted he's as any good as any of the people who's been doing this job of punching and kicking for, like, decades, but he didn't say no to the suggestion. Hours later, just when dinner arrived, Francis found himself with a twisted wrist and his mom nearly killing Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes laughed, but somber down when even Dad had looked worried.

"It'll heal," Francis insisted and knew he was right when Dad only smiled, told him how he's watched how Francis dealt with Mr. Barnes' attacks. Dad told him that he's proud of him, his little boy, touched his injured wrist and repeated that it _will_ heal. He even kissed Francis' temple, and somehow the pain turned to not be so bad.

Anyway, dinner's served and more of the Avengers joined in. Mom was stroking his hair and still brimming with anger when Mr. Barnes finally excused himself, met with a large man who'd just arrived. A woman — a redhead — was by the large's man side, and she was laughing with a boy. Around his age? No, younger. The boy looked a little intimidated, like this was all a little new to him, but his eyes lit up when he spotted Mr. Barnes. So did the large man's.

"Thor isn't coming?" The redhead spoke up, and the man with the claws — _Logan_ , Francis remembered Mom calling him — gruff, answered no.

"Who's that?" Francis asked, leaning back against Mom and decided that even though he looked spoiled as hell, he hadn't cared. Mom didn't seem to care either when her stroke became lighter, and she had leaned quickly to drop a kiss against the top of his head; her eyes glaring a bit at the wrist Mr. Bucky has marked with his flesh thumb. 

"Cap. You know — _Captain America_. Tell me you know who he is." Mom laughed, and the anger in her eyes seeped away. Mom was beautiful.

Dad went away to greet the redhead, and patted the boy's head. He's also a redhead, now Francis was squinting his eyes and the poor lighting of the dining place Mr. Stark has reserved for them were shining a brighter ray of light against the younger guy's head. Mom leaned once more, whispered. "And that's James. Steve and Nat's son. You used to play with him all the time when you were younger. Remember?"

Francis crinkled his nose, because no, he _didn't_ remember any of those memories at all. He kinda felt betrayed. Memories worked pretty fucking mysteriously to him, and it bugged him to his core.

"Okay," Francis replied, because he really had nothing else to say, and watched as James casted a look towards him a moment later. James' mom — Miss Nat — came afterwards and hinted at his injury with a smirk; Mr. Barnes sighing into her shoulders when she pinched him in the ribs. Whether to congratulate or to berate, Francis has never figured out. "You'll be okay, Francis," Miss Nat said, and Francis nodded limply, said that he knew that. He wasn't stupid, of course he knew that. (He didn't say the second part of the sentence, though — because he's like, fucking rational and didn't want to get a punch.)

"You used to call me 'Auntie Nat' when you were young." Miss Nat reminded, almost looking sad.

"I was 'Uncle Bucky'," Mr. Barnes sighed some more.

Francis blinked.

 

 

 

**5.**

Having a strained wrist really fucking sucked, and Kate must've laughed for eons when he told her that over the phone. She gushed about how she wanted to see it, how it must be _so cool_ to hang out with the rest of the Avengers and Francis felt a little suckish because Kate was just never the type to be delicate enough to like, not talk about the topic he hated, even though she knew. Francis told her that it's kinda weird that she's into the superhero stuff when aren't girls supposed to like, barbie and shit?

Kate huffed over the phone, like he knew she would, and went on about a-five-minute rant on how what's so fucking wrong with girls liking superheroes and stuff that involves aggression? Did she fucking die and came back to a world where punching and kicking and defending one's self has limited only to people with dicks stuck between their legs? And it wasn't like superheroes were fucking labelled and handed only for the male population to flatter over. Jesus christ.

Francis has heard this kind of argument countless of times during his short thirteen year old life — it almost made him wonder why the _fuck_  he brought it up, until he realised that he just liked to rile Katie up sometimes. See what she'll do. It's boring here, and he missed her. He told her this. He also said, "Wish you were here."

Katie finally sighed, deep and dejected, said it back: "Yeah. Same."

There's a knock, then. A squeak. Francis turned only to see a boy, much younger than he is, standing by the door. His hair's jet black and his face is clean. He's small, too. Maybe he's seven? Six? Francis eyed him up and down, and the boy squeaked again, vibrating in place. He introduced himself as Henry, _Henry Junior_ , and he's the son of Giant Man and The Wasp — and is your hand bandaged? Did you hurt yourself? Is that a sticker of a naked woman splayed on your knuckles?

Katie gasped, laughed too. "Who's that?"

"Hold on," Francis murmured distractedly into the phone, and invited Henry Junior in. He hesitated, sort of vibrated again before nervously making a headline to where Francis was lying down on the bed. He hadn't known whose room it was — it was just available, and Francis had been permitted to use it — and Francis didn't think it's Henry Junior's. He asked anyway, "Sorry. Is this your room? Do you like, wanna sleep in here?"

Francis has been sleeping a lot since he's twisted his wrist. He fucking hates medication.

Henry Junior immediately shook his head, denying insistently. "Oh, no, no, no! No. No — I — you — you don't know whose room this was? Then how come you can use the telephone? Did you know that Alexander Graham Bell, the person who invented the telephone, didn't have his middle name 'till he was like eleven? Actually, that was his birthday present because — because he kept asking his dad he'd wanted a middle name like his brothers, and when his eleven birthday arrived, he got the name 'Graham'! Did you know that? Don't you think it's weird? And kind of wasteful to ask for a name on your birthday. And wouldn't it be hard to change your name so easily? Like, there're laws and stuff. I mean, I looked it up. I — I asked my mom to change my name 'cause mine's just like Dad's and it's very confusing sometimes and plus—"

"Woah, woah, _Junior_. I'm gonna stop you right there."

Henry immediately halted on his rambling, and Francis found himself immensely confused. "I'm sorry," Henry flushed, his small body curling in and making him look smaller. Francis wondered if this was how it felt like to kick a puppy. "I — I talk way too much when I'm nervous. And I'm nervous a lot, I'm sorry."

"That's okay, just slow down. I don't care." Francis said nonchalantly, told Kate that he had to go. Kate was busy anyway, her sister's gonna get married, so it's all fine. They said goodbye and Francis promised to call more. Kate too. She hung up. Francis kicked his feet onto the bed that wasn't his, and looked back at Henry Junior. "So, you said your name was, like — Henry? Henry Junior? Giant Man and Wasp, huh?"

Henry smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. A-and — and you're Francis! Son of Hawkeye and Mockingbird!"

"Clint and Bobbi, yeah." He hid the grimace of the superhero names, decided it didn't matter that the younger one hadn't known better, and relaxed once more. "How old are you again?"

Henry Junior turned out to be an intelligent fellow, and Francis learned a lot more about — well, sort of everything — from him; even Avengers facts like how Henry Junior's dad, Henry Sr, was like, some kind of a genius. Like Tony Stark. Henry talked about the Ant Man suit, and how he thought a Freeze Ray would be super cool (Francis didn't disagree), and how he got to hold Captain America's shield that one time. Henry told him that he's eight, but he's already studying stuff _Francis_ was studying so Francis had joked about how maybe Henry could help him with his homework then, and Henry had asked him if he's stupid. That sort of halted the conversation until Henry cleared out that he's done it again, hasn't it. He's said something completely rude or brash or way too straightforward.

Francis tumbled down from the bed, laughing, and decided Henry was chill. He could deal with Henry. 

Days later, Francis found Henry tinkering with electronic stuff when he was searching for the guy. Henry told him that maybe he could fix an arrow together, because he knew that that was what Francis was into, and it could be like a special arrow. Arrow that does more than just shoot. Francis raised an eyebrow and found himself super fucking interested in that. But since his movement's pretty limited than Henry's skilful fingers, Francis resulted himself to just reading lots of guides and manuals until they sketched a probable prototype. It was kinda awesome.

James, Cap's son, came half way during their work announcing he brought Henry lunch. He must've didn't think Francis would be around because he stopped dead in his track when he saw the archer kicking back besides Henry on the messy desk, a book tilting on his laps while a spoon of yoghurt he stole from the refrigerator was sticking out from his mouth. James gaped and spluttered noiselessly like a fish, which was dumb and hilarious, and didn't really say anything until Henry realised he was there.

"James! This is Francis! Hawkeye and Mockingbird's son, remember!"

He still winced at that, but whatever. What else is new?

James finally looked at the greasy paperback, his pre-pubescence features shrinking — probably realising Francis has robbed the only other kid amongst the sea of adults during their summer holidays — and murmured, "I - I got the burger."

"Oh, cool! Hey, you wanna join us?" Henry asked, excited, and maybe it was _he_ who'd given the wrong impression because the redhead immediately squawked, said some lame excuses about how _never mind_ , he didn't wanna interrupt, before fleeing away. Henry had responded, "Weird," because it was, but then got distracted at the lunch in his hand. "Hey, wanna share!"

"Uh, no." Francis replied as nicely as he could, and went back to the book in his hand, trying to find flaws to whatever Henry might be doing. Mrs. Van Dyne, Henry's Mom, came two hours later and dragged Henry away because she _knew_ he hadn't taken his bath. Henry whined, "Mom!" but Mrs. Van Dyne was kinda awesome in a way that she gave no shit to the puppy dog eyes her son was sending her way. Francis decided that Mrs. Van Dyne was kinda cool, and he wouldn't hold it against her for the unfinished arrow project. Francis called Kate later, just because, and figured it was weird when she didn't pick up. Not even after the third try. The fourth one, one of her maids did. She informed that Kate wasn't available, and Francis has asked if she's sick.

"She call you later, okay?" The maid replied, all choppy English and panicked niceness and Francis shrugged, hummed and finally said, "Okay."

Francis continued reading the guidebook. It's kinda rad.

 


End file.
